


Violet Lights and Violent Hearts

by makemeabirdofprey



Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy, Panic! at the Disco
Genre: BAMF Women, Bad Decisions, Bad Jokes, Band References, Drug Use, F/M, Gen, Homophobia, LOTS!!!, M/M, Past Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Racism, Running Away, and bad english, bad parent relationships, band jokes, everyone is GAY!!!, non-binary character(s), pretentious asshole Ryan, pupppy Brendon, really - Freeform, so much drama, trainwreck central
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-21
Updated: 2017-12-14
Packaged: 2019-01-03 19:21:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,532
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12153162
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/makemeabirdofprey/pseuds/makemeabirdofprey
Summary: Everyone is a trainwreck, tour life is hard, and Ryan realizes things.EDIT: Kinda finished for the time being, but I don't have time anymore to write long stories since I'm in a terminal year. I may continue it in the future (mainly during summer break), but 2 chapters for now folks.





	1. the light behind her eyes

**Author's Note:**

> this fic came from 3 am aesthetic poems and too much teenage angst building up. trainwreck central. fucked up people trying to be less fucked up.
> 
>  
> 
> please tell me in comets if my english is bad or if i make mistakes. english is not my first language sooo...idk
> 
> leave kudo(s) and tell me what u think in a comment.

Ryan wasn’t sure what to make of his life right now. On one hand, they were going to see Brendon’s sister – because, yes, Brendon apparently had a half sister that ran away from home when she was 16 and recently got in touch with Brendon – on the other, Ryan never liked hard rock very much. Or punk. Or any genre that was too loud to hear anything properly. But Brendon wanted to go, and Spencer wanted to and Dallon agreed, only because he was bored. And even after years apart, after rebuilding their friendship, Ryan still couldn’t say no to Brendon. “Ry, what the fuck do you wear to a rock concert?” Brendon shouted from the other room, pulling the older man away from his thoughts. Ryan sighed, “Bren, it’s a fucking tour, w... you played on stage. What did the people in the crowd wear?” He abruptly stopped himself from saying “we”. No one needed to remember that, especially since whenever someone mentioned the band, and Ryan’s involvement in it, it became awkward. Very. Brendon thought it was his fault Ryan left. Ryan thought that was stupid. Brendon emerged some minutes later from his and Sarah’s bathroom dressed in jeans and a boob shirt. Literally, it had boobs on it. Ryan sighed again. “Is that the shirt you wanna wear when you meet your sister’s band?” Ryan arched an eyebrow, and Brendon pouted like a child. This was gonna be a long night.

They picked Dallon and Spencer from their respective houses, with promises to Breezy to bring Dallon back unscathed. On the way, the four men got a call from none other than Pete fucking Wentz himself. When he heard what they were doing, he thought that they couldn’t survive alone, so he and “some friends you’ll love them too” were gonna meet them at the venue. The venue was a large bar, with fans waiting for the doors to open. Ryan could see that the fans were mostly wearing things that their parents probably disapproved of: leather, spikes, ripped t-shirts. He saw some mokawks too, and his weariness of the band grew. It was probably gonna be one of those thrashy sounding bands that all sounded the same and were more about the attitude than the music. Ryan also didn’t mention his oppininons to Brendon or the other guys, as he saw their expressions change when they saw the crowd. Black and leather and boots and anger were on the menu for the fans waiting outside. Screaming, loud and brash, angry punk rock people. Great, Ryan thought. The manager of the band was set to meet them at the back entrance, where Pete already was, without any friends, because “fucking idiots”. Near the back entrance there were 2 people fucking in an alley. Ryan just threw a look at them, while Pete and Bren whistled and Spencer and Dallon ignored them. The men were beginning to be impatient, listening to gender ambiguous moans from the alley. Not their definition of a best night out.

“I swear to fuck, if Ray jumps into the crowd one more time, I will actually throttle her. Actually asphyxiate her.” the voice of a very angry woman sounded trough the door. The same woman opened the door, and the first thing that Ryan saw was a heavily spiked leather skirt.

“You’re Brendon?” she asked, looking at Ryan. She had blue eyes. Blue eyes and blonde hair, American housewife material, only if her fishnets weren’t ripped and blazer wasn’t full of chains and rips.

“That would be me.” Spencer and Dallon laughed at the mistake, but Brendon jumped in front of him, responding to the question. The woman led them into the venue that smelled of sweat and bad decisions and sex. Not Ryan’s kind of place, but it was growing on him, in a weird, perverse way. He could hear noise, and he could hear people screaming, and Brendon hurrying after the woman –Adelaide, as she screams and starts running towards the actual venue. The men follow her, and only then Ryan recognizes the screams as screams of anger. The male singer is saying something angrily, and the bassist and drummer are at the front of the scene.

“Fuck your sister!” Adelaide shouts at Brendon.

“That’s illegal!” he responds sassily, but there’s worry on his face. The noise dies down, and Ryan can focus on some sounds as they’re being led trough a damp corridor towards the screaming and lights and life. If Ryan had the luxury of stopping in his tracks, he would.

For the past months – years, even – he hid away in his home, with his dog, and few friends. He isolated himself from the world, like a god damn hermit. Ryan couldn’t remember how sweat from a concert felt on his skin. How the flashing lights from the stage looked. How screaming fans sounded when they were screaming at him, for him, because of him. He had been dead for the last years. It felt good, god damn it, even if it wasn’t his scene. Even if it wasn’t an indie concert with five people in it. Even if it was screaming, and Brendon’s sister apparently fighting someone in the crowd because they started hating on the band, and LGBT people, and boasting Trump – all of which everyone in their little group cheered at - and ripped clothing and no showers. As he took his place behind the barricade, pushed by security, and as he started screaming himself, it felt damn good.

The situation calmed down, and the singer explained what happened as a female figure clad in black was pushed up on the stage and taken backstage. The singer was good looking – Ryan decided – between violet lights and violent hearts. He had blonde hair, kind of long and floppy, and he was shirtless, exposing a slender body and tattoos.

“You know, when I was a kid,” his voice is beautiful, unique and rough, “I came to shows, to punk rock shows because they were the only place where I belonged. I saw bands like AFI and My Chemical Romance and I could be myself. And back then tiny motherfuckers like him didn’t have the right to enter the venue. Now I know we’re not the fucking Misfits, but seriously, fuck, don’t come to shows to be a little cunt. Why waste money just to see us and not even have the decency to say it to our face. Like we fucking offered him every fucking instrument on the damn stage, we even have a fucking saxophone in the back, and he didn’t come to show us how fucking though he could be.” He was angry, and rightfully so. Adelaide explained to them while the pretty singer ranted what happened. Heckler had an offensive sign, the band stopped and apparently Brendon’s sister gave a fucking magnificent speech, guy tries to run and punches some people, Brendon’s sister jumps into the crowd, security breaks the fight. She walks on stage, and the crowd erupts again, screaming and crying. Pete is excited and Brendon jumps up and down. Spencer and Dallon look uncomfortable, but they smile. And Ryan is smiling too. He looks at Brendon and the younger man looks at him and they’re laughing and screaming.

“Okay, so the next song is for this guy and every asshole like him and everyone that tells you not to be who you are.” A feminine voice speaks from the stage, and the men turn their attention to Brendon’s sister. She has black hair that looks almost purple in the colorful lights. The only thing that Ryan manages to see before the songs starts blaring is that she – like the rest of her band – is wearing black and has some lines drawn on her face.

War paint.

She kicks into song and Ryan kinda understand why people like them. They’re beautiful- not only in the way they look, but the way they play and move. The curve on a guitar under violet light. The lead singer dips his head to scream, the bassist – another girl, dark skinned with wild, curly hair – plays beautifully, kinda glued to her spot, making up the stage presence with her skilled fingers. The drum parts are excellent and Spencer nods in appreciation. Brendon sister takes the stage, and Ryan can see his friend in her.

But where Brendon is pretty, wild and warm, his sister is a storm. She kicks and spins and headbangs and jumps, a thunder in her own right. Where Brendon is sexy, alluring, she was angry, and as the singer pours lyrics about how shitty the current government is, Ryan thought she was beautiful.

_“We're raising our cross just to burn it_

_The clergy are selling their souls_

_Clearing a path, ignoring the facts_

_Intoxicated by the throne.”_

He was okay with admitting that he was wrong about the band. The lyrics were good – they were fucking good – and everyone was enjoying themselves, screaming like they were 18 again and angry about the world. This song was fucking amazing.

_“This is a breakdown_

_And we've got nowhere else to go”_

The song came to an instrumental part, slowing down, as Brendon’s sister walked up to her mic, and he could see – feel – everyone in their little group tense.

_“It’s a game, you’ve been played_

_It’s a flock, you’re the sheep_

_It’s a pied-piper song that has lulled you to sleep”_

Ryan was blown away, but not because she had Brendon’s larger than life voice. Hers it was unique. Purely hers and Ryan liked it. It was rough, and it sounded like she had been drinking – which she did, proved by the wine bottle near the drums – but the words that she sang were more important.

_“It’s a lie and you fell for it - hook, line, and sinker_

_A hand that you shook that then gave you the finger_

_A fraud and a fake, a cowardly king_

_A lie to your face, but you still kiss the ring_

_This is the breakdown, this is the breakdown_

_This is the breakdown!”_

She fell on her knees near her amp, putting her fist in the air, right in front of them to finish the song. She grinned at Brendon and the gang, Pete cheering even louder. The girl let herself on her back, in a half backbend, all without missing a beat or chord. She was good.

Ryan's fingers ached for some pencils. He didn't draw/ He didn't paint. He wasn't skilled in that field of arts, but she looked ethereal – in a perverse, sweaty and blood covered way – in the violet lights, wearing a ripped t-shirt that was held together by a prayer and some safety pins, and he wanted to draw her. A fallen angel coming to smite down law and order, to instigate anarchy.

Most probably starting with Trump, as his face flashed behind the band, along with the queen’s- Brendon’s sister’s mom being English – and footage from the 9/11 attacks and other terrorist attacks, coupled with article cutouts. It was angry. It was rash, and irresponsible and angry. It was a statement, and Ryan was intrigued. The song ended too quickly, and everyone cheered and fistbumped the air. Pete and Brendon were having the time of their lives, Spence and Dallon were loosening up, and Ryan was smiling and jumping.

“Hello, LA!” the crowd cheers. “Okay, so I think I can say on behalf of everyone that you were amazing,” the dark skinned bassist speaks, and she takes the voice of a sports presenter. “You know me, obviously. I’m Zahra, you uncultured peanuts” she starts introducing the band.

“Jasper Grace – vocals, guitar, saxophone, trumpet, the prettiness and pettiness of the band.” The crowd cheered at that.

"Hey!” he protests.

“Shush, I’m tryna do my job. The man that has been sitting behind our asses for the longest, and I’m pretty sure has seen some things, mister Christian on the drums.” The guy does a small drum solo. Ryan can see black hair, and apparently he is shirtless too. What is whit good looking guys being shirtless on stage?

“Now, you know her, you despise her, and hate her and in a small teny-tiny way love her, the master of the house, a bastard, orphan, son of a whore… sorry wrong musical… apparently UFC fighter, Ayreen Black.” The crowd cheeres, and Brendon cheeres even louder. Ayreen smiles at them, and she makes a dramatic bow.

She takes the mic and starts, “LA, how are you?” Ryan has been accustomed to cheering by now, but the sheer force of it takes him by surprise. “Now, the reason we came here, the reason that we ended this tour here, is because this is the last performance of this album, this story… FOREVER! And we wanted to come here to properly kill it off...So put up your masks, draw on your warpaint, and scream to the heavens!”

_“Say goodbye to the ones that you love…”_


	2. alice, where's your wonderland

The party raged on, and Ray wasn’t sure if her eyes were clouded because she was stoned, or because the smell of sweaty bodies  was too much. The DJ was playing some dance music, and she swayed to the beat, hoping for another fix. Brendon was in the middle of the dance floor, grinding Dallon and Jasper like some drunk 18 year old gay boys. She kinda wanted to shout at him that he had a wife, but Sarah probably wouldn’t care.

“Why don’t you dance with them?” a voice asked. Ray turned around, and there he was, Mr. Ross himself, nursing a glass of wiskey. His hair was falling in his face, eyes sparkling even in the dim club light. Shadows caught in his cheekbones, his jawline, the crook of his neck, and despite the fact that he was probably the most clothed out of anyone in the club, Ray wanted to sleep with him.

Plain and simple. She wanted him. She wanted to kiss him and fuck him and leave him exhausted. She wanted to tire him out, and for once, she wanted him to tire her out. It was a strange combination, but a pleasant one, and Ray usually got what she wanted.

She raised an eyebrow at him, “Why don’t you? All the fanfiction, some of it must be true…” Ryan had the decency to blush before shrugging.

“Parts of it…aren’t you shipped with your band mate…Jason or Jasper or something?” the alcohol started slurring Ryan’s words. The club was a mess of lights and shadows and space, the only thing that was discernable was Ray’s face and the drink in his hand.

Ray grinned, a grin that reminded Ryan of a wolf, made for war and ready to rip your throat apart, “Yeah, and with Zahra…and Chris… and Adelaide… basically I’m like the whore of the band. Do you want another one?’ she gestured to the drink in his hand, now empty. The boy just nodded and followed her towards the bar, trough the dancefloor, his group nowhere to be seen.

He ordered a  virgin cocktail, and the girl near him scowled ”Lightweight…I’m pretty sure I could drink all of you under a table. But I also spent my teenage years kind of as a whore so I can’t say nothing?”

“I’d like to see that in action sometime.” his mouth talked without meaning to. Ray just laughed.

“What, my crippling alcoholism or my whore skills?”

Ryan didn’t have the decency to blush as he leaned in, the alcohol and something else clouding his mind. “Both.”

“Impressive. I heard better lines from guys who thought I was a prostitute and tried to buy me for 5$. I don’t care, but 5 $ ain’t gonna cut it.” She grinned, and Ryan found himself grinning back. He didn’t know what happened next, it was a blur of violet lights and music.

The next thing he was doing lines in the bathroom with Ray and a girl with purple hair and a person with blue eyes and he was spinning. Spinning and spinning and spinning. His head felt like shit, he felt like shit, the cocaine was absolute shit but he took another line and it all went black except from a slightly concerned and high Ray looking at him with the bluest eyes he’s ever seen.

Blue like the sea, but a deep blue. A gradient of blues and greens and violets, violet, violets, everything was violet, then blue again, He could feel the drugs in his veins, starting from his head to his one, two, three, four, five fingers, and to his two good feet.

“And down the rabbit hole we go…”

………………………………………………………..

The first thing Ryan felt was a sudden need to puke. And he did. His head smacked back on a hard surface, and he could started hearing: music, people, a party. Stars were in his veins, and galaxies of bruises would bloom on his body in a day, and the stars and constellations in his veins hurt, but it felt so fucking good, still.

“You’re a fucking lightweight, Ryan Ross.” He heard a voice behind him. Familiar, quite deep, in the middle of feminine and masculine.

Ray fucking Black-Urie. Again.

“Feel like I’ve heard that before.” He responded.

“Or you’re just old.”

“Also heard that one.” The dizziness in his head finally subdued and he could finally get in a sitting position, enough to look at Ray properly. Her short hair was blowing in the wind, blending into the dark background of the night sky. He looked around, and was greeted by the stunning view of the New York skyline at night, he could see everything from the dingy rooftop of the club. “Why the flying fuck did you bring me to a rooftop?”

“Aesthetic?” Ray tried to joke, buy when she saw the deadpan expression plastered on  Ryan’s face, she sighed. “Fresh air? Night sky? Also all the rooms were occupied by fornicating people, so you’re very fucking welcome, Ryan Ross.” She turned towards him, and he could see detail in her face that he probably wasn’t sober enough to notice: the way her burgundy lips we quite big, looked fake, but suited her; the way she still had smudges from the warpaint from earlier. The same big eyes that Brendon has, the same nose, same masculine jawline…

“Take a picture, it’ll last forever.” The same wine dark lips mouthed. As narcissistic as it may sound, Ray liked attention. She craved it. She loved having cameras on her, and she loved being looked over by men and women and everything in between. But right there, on the cold fucking rooftop that smelled awful, she somehow wanted to hide.

It didn’t feel good.

Ray looked away from Ryan, towards the city that broke her and gave her a name. Ryan did too, and for a few minutes all you could hear were sounds from the party down below. “God I used to love and hate this place at the same time.”

“You used to live here, right?” he inquired, remembering bits and pieces of information.

“Yeah. I run away.” The deadpan was obvious in her voice, but Ryan was nevr good with filters, especially when he was drunk and high on something.

“Seems liberating…”

If you told Ray a month ago that she would ever have a conversation like this with Ryan Ross. You would have to slap her twice. But here she was, responding to the former emo god, “I mean, I lived in the most conservative-Mike-Pence-Mormon family…”

Ryan interrupted, “Brendon’s, right?”

“Yeah. They weren’t  very…accepting of…anything, really. And then I became a drag queen, and a stripper, and a legend, and here we are” Ryan looked towards Ray, seeing the girl kinda stare blankly into space. It was like looking through frosted glass, the night life reflecting of her blank expression. He was reminded of a shitty tumblr aesthetic that he may have looked up once or twice.

One sentence stayed with him though “…then I became a drag queen…”, before he could press more, like reading his thoughts, Ray gave a witchy cackle, something that Ryan found out in the past day that was her normal laugh, “God, we sound like we came straight out of the Perks of Being a Wallflower. Or a teen poem or some shit.”

Ryan laughed, and then vomited straight on the rooftop. Ray didn’t even flinch.

Minutes pass, Ray smoking more cigarettes, Ryan joining in silently at one point. Ray’s hair, illuminated by the lights of the streets, flapped in the wind. If Ryan was in her position, he was sure his hair would look a mess, like some birds, rats and bats had an orgy in it, but her short hair was flapping behind her. And for the third time that evening, Ryan wanted to take a photo.

At one point during the night, without saying a work, she leaned on him. The silence was only broken, fragmented into pieces when he could hear Ray snort lightly, “Watch how a cold broken teen will desperately lean on a superglued human of proof…”

 

 

 


End file.
